Languid Summer
by blackcatsfly
Summary: An insight onto the possible outcomes of incest. [one shot]
1. I Love You

Disclaimer: I dont own anything apart from this crazy non existent plot...

Actions have consequences  
Everybody has Secrets  
The extent that human nature takes to avoid these Secrets being revealed...

* * *

It had been a languid summer night. The air had been thick and pregnant with the heat. People walked around wearing indecent clothing and fanning themselves. An ice cream truck with pink stripes and tantalizing pictures of cold ice creams made the mouths of people at Ottery St Catchpole's water.  
The two youngest Weasley siblings had run out excitedly with money they had searched the whole house for.  
Ron had been happy then, watching his little sister twirling in circles with a strawberry ice cream and her pockets stuffed full of extra napkins. They had both been happy then.

* * *

She is lying with her back facing her brother. None of them want to admit what they have just committed, the crime they had committed. It wasn't clear who started it and who wanted it the most but it had happened with startling subtlety and speed. It had been a hurtling mess of tongues, friction and hands. For her it had only been pain. 

He is facing the ceiling with his hands covering his eyes. He is chanting to himself something only he seems to understand but one thing is clear what ever he was saying was laced with regret.

Tears begin to roll down her cheeks while his bottom lip trembles from the fear he felt in the pits of his heart.

The only indication that it had happened was the pin sized drop of blood, the tussled sheets and the beads of sweat sliding down their backs...guilt.

* * *

The effects of that Summer night don't come into realisation until a small bump appears on her stomach. The toilet still smells of her emptied stomach and the minty freshness of the toothpaste she scrubbed her mouth raw with.  
She begins to starve herself thinking it is only her family genetics haunting her. 

She throws up the next morning with her hair shrouding her eyes.

* * *

The boy with a lightning bolt scarring him was not a boy anymore. 

Everybody had thought he had died but nobody cared once his purpose to kill the dark lord was fulfilled.

On the two year anniversary of the death of the darkest wizard of all time he had stumbled into the Ministry Of Magic with fiery green eyes lingering on every laughing body in the hall until it was silent as the grave.

Women began to lay themselves at his feet and men began to bestow sentimental trinkets upon his birth name to reward him for murder.

He doesn't seem to care and he shows up at the Weasley household one day with a single white daisy twirling idly in his left hand.

He asks for her with a fake nervous smile, but it fools the parents like a charm. She comes down the stairs and the wheels in her mind begin to turn. The Sorting Hat always said she should have been in Slytherin even after it had been burned to a single tattered shred in the Great Battle.

Her brother watches from in between the stair railings and narrows his eyes as he watches her leap at the boy who lived with a happy smile gracing her features. Her charade doesn't fool her brother, only the man with an obsession with the innocent and pure Ginevra Weasley smiles back at her.

* * *

He can hear her that night and the same sounds she had made for him through the paper thin walls. Every time the headboard on the room next door hits the walls he flinches and wraps himself in a tighter hold underneath his pillow to block out the sound. 

The pillow doesn't help and neither do his parents in the room to his left speaking of marriage and grandchildren.

When the sounds stop Ron is still wide awake with a pained expression and his fist blocking out the sounds of his grief.

The knuckles that had been broken many times protecting various things bled red with anger and betrayal.

* * *

On the day of the wedding, she is the epitome of the beautiful and happy bride to be.  
Only if you looked past her lucrative smile, her bony figure, the way her lips quivered every time somebody took a photo saying "smile", the way she breathed shakily and how her fingers inched towards the cigarette in between her cleavage. 

He glares at her with stormy chilling blue eyes. The emotions running through him were carefully hidden underneath.

He wanted to see the boy who lived choking underneath his hands.

He wanted to see her begging for his forgiveness.

Since today was her big day though, not today.

She runs over tripping on her overflowing and expensive designer dress.

Who had caused the growing baby inside of her was not given away by the familial kiss she placed on his jaw, and while he clenches his fists tightly by his side, she whispers...

_"I love you"_

He stands there stunned for a few moments and just as he opens his lips to speak likewise, she runs away to be wedded leaving him abandoned. Her words echo through his mind. _I love you..._

* * *

It has been three years from then. 

He has a full time job, a loving family and a good crowd of friends.

She has men worshipping her, an estate worth more than what the Ministry earns every ten years and a famous husband...she also has an adorable little girl who is on the cover of Ideal Child Magazine every month.

She often drives over to see him with her daughter's hand clasped tightly in her own.  
He often refuses to talk to her but talks to_ his_ daughter called Rose. He would entertain Rose with games and riddles.  
Meanwhile his sister would listen with bored reluctance to his wife.

She would eye him and _accidentally_ flutter her eyes or _accidentally _show a little too much of her thin legs.

That's what he tells himself at least, he doesn't even know if he is imagining these things or if they are truly happening.

* * *

One sunny afternoon she invites him to her mansion. He walks in nervous and feeling unwelcome in this alien house full of cold marble and statues of art. The very chill emanating from the marble is enough to want to make him leave. 

Just as he is about to leave from the frosty hell hole, she appears wearing a silk dressing gown, wearing ridiculously large sunglasses over her eyes and with flushed red cheeks.

She indicates for him to follow her into the study.  
His eyes settle on the dead body of Harry Potter in the corner. He starts backing away slowly as if he would be next.

Sighing deeply she takes off her sunglasses revealing a purpling black eye. He gapes at the horrible bruise that marks her.  
The red tinge in her cheeks weren't blush but the aftermath of a well placed slap to the face.  
Pulling down the left shoulder of her dressing gown she shows him the blue and purple bruises and cuts littering her body.

Some of the bruises look old and some look near healed.

_"You can go now; I just wanted to let you know"_ she says while putting on her sunglasses.  
He nods before tearing himself away from her melancholy gaze.

* * *

The death of Harry Potter is on the headline news the very same evening. 

There are photos of her sprawled everywhere.

Some are photos of her since she was a little girl, some are of her as an alluring model and some are of her shrouding her face with her hands. Everybody says it was an accident, why would anyone want the boy who lived dead?

The case was dismissed and adjourned.

* * *

He sees her at the funeral sitting in a black carriage led by threstrals. Only a few people see the skeletal horses but everybody felt the dank chill emanating from them. 

She doesn't seem concerned at the least. Sitting in the carriage she is holding her daughter who is gurgling happily and playing with her mother's red locks of hair.

Red like blood.

* * *

It is sixteen years from that day. 

_"Don't you dare tell her! I won't allow you to!"_ she screams throwing a glass vase at him. He covers himself from the glass shards before grabbing a hold of her shoulders.

_"She deserves to know, she still thinks her Dad is the boy who lived and beat her mother every night! Do you think she's proud of that?"_ Ron yelled hysterically. Ginny pales before wrenching herself out of his grasp.

_"So what?"_ she says jutting her chin out even as tears leak from her eyes, _"Do you think she'll be proud of knowing that she's the daughter of 'mommy's brother'! It's sick! It's sick...it's sick...I'm sick..." _she says trailing off and crumbling to the ground.

He feels guilty when he leaves her choking out sobs on the living room carpet. Walking up the stairs two at a time he finds Rose in her bedroom. Rose is now eighteen and reminds him painfully of her mother on the languid summer night that all of this began.  
As he walks away he doesn't feel any guilt.

Family Secret

The truth is better left untold.

'_I love you' _


	2. Languid Summer ReEdited Version

Hi readers,  
No this is not a cheesy epilogue or second chapter.  
I've edited the story so grammatical errors are fixed and what i was attempting to say is actually said.  
I also left the original so people can laugh at my disjointed writing.

On a personal note, I'm doing a writing subject at school now where we write a short story piece to be marked. I am still pursuing the Writer's Dream of publishing a awesome book someday.  
Last year of High School!

When i was re-reading this story (which i had forgotten about), it was amusing that I wrote about the sorting hat being burnt in the Great Battle because it really did happen in Deathly Hallows. I also apologise for naming Ginny/Ron's daughter Rose when there really is a girl in the epilogue of called Rose. Completely unintentional, i'm just psychic :P

Enjoy!

- GG

Disclaimer: I own nothing in this story except my writing voice.

* * *

It had been a languid summer night.

The air had been thick and pregnant with heat.

People walked about indecently dressed, fanning themselves with makeshift fans. An ice cream truck with pink stripes and tantalizing pictures of cold ice creams made the residents of Ottery St. Catchpole's mouths water.

The two youngest Weasley siblings had run out excitedly with money they had searched the whole house for.

Ron had been happy then, watching his little sister twirling in circles with a strawberry ice cream and her pockets stuffed with extra napkins.

They had been happy then.

* * *

She is lying with her back facing her brother.  
Neither of them wants to admit what they had just committed, the crime they had committed. It isn't clear who started it and who wanted it the most but it had happened with startling subtlety and speed. It had been a hurtling mess of tongues, friction and hands.

For her it had been pain.

He is facing the ceiling with his hands covering his eyes. He is chanting to himself something only he seems to understand but one thing is clear whatever he was saying was laced with regret. Tears begin to slide down her cheeks while his bottom lip trembles from the fear he feels in the pit of his heart. The only indication that _it _had happened is the pin sized drop of blood, the tussled sheets and beads of sweat sliding down their backs...guilt.

The effects of that Summer night don't come into realisation until a small bump appears in the cradle of her hipbones.

The sink smells of her emptied stomach.

Bathroom mat carefully rearranged too perfectly to be natural, after being kicked aside in her haste.

The minty freshness of the toothpaste she scrubbed her mouth raw with, made her teeth burn, smooth and slippery.

Her shirt wrenched up, exposing her jutting hipbones and the gentle curve in between.

She begins to starve herself thinking it is only her family genetics haunting her.

The same ritual the next morning, her fiery hair shrouding her eyes refusing to see.  
Sink, burn, mirror, denial.

* * *

The boy with a lightning bolt scar is no longer a boy.

Everybody had thought he had died but nobody cared once his purpose to kill the dark lord was fulfilled.

On the second anniversary of the death of the darkest wizard of all time he had stumbled into the Ministry Of Magic with fiery green eyes lingering on every laughing body in the hall until it was silent as the shallow grave they had thrown Voldemort's severed carcass into.

Women began to lay themselves at his feet and men bestowed sentimental trinkets upon his birth name to reward him for murder.

He doesn't care about the others, only his new obsession.

He had trained his whole life to kill.  
They had brainwashed him, accepting every death as a part of his mission.  
Nothing was precious, including him, he was just a weapon.  
Now, his foe vanquished, dead and buried: his new goal was to make her his.  
She had been surrounded by love her whole life, protected by her brothers, her living breathing parents.

He wanted that. He wanted her.

He arrived at the Weasley household on a Tuesday morning, a single white daisy twirling idly in his left hand.  
He asked for her with a fake nervous smile, but it fooled the parents like a charm.  
She had descended the stairs slowly while the wheels in her mind began to rapidly spin.  
The Sorting Hat always said she should have been in Slytherin even after it had been burned to a tattered shred in the Great Battle.

Her brother watches from in between the stair railings and narrows his eyes as he watches her leap towards the boy who lived with a seductive smile gracing her features. Her charade doesn't fool her brother, only the man with an obsession with the innocent and pure Ginevra Weasley smiles back at her.

He could hear her that night through the paper thin walls, the same sounds she had made for him in the Summer.  
A gasp, her hand sliding down his back, release.  
He could hear his parents in the room to his left speaking of marriage and grandchildren.  
Every time her headboard hit the wall he flinched, wrapping himself tightly underneath his sheets to block out the sound.  
But then his own imagination fills his mind with images of her.  
When the sounds stop Ron is still wide awake with a pained expression and his fist in his mouth blocking the sounds of his grief.

His knuckles, broken protecting the things he loved, bled red with anger and betrayal.

* * *

On the day of the wedding, she is the epitome of the beautiful and happy bride to be.  
Only if you looked past her lucrative smile, her bony figure, the way her lips quivered every time somebody took a photo saying "smile" and how her fingers inched towards the cigarette in between her cleavage could you see her real thoughts.

He glared at her with his chilling blue eyes, the emotions running through him, carefully hidden.  
He wanted to see the boy who lived choking underneath his hands.  
He wanted to see her begging for his forgiveness.

Since today was her big day, not today…

She ran over tripping on her overflowing, expensive designer dress.

Who had caused the growing baby inside of her was not given away by the familial kiss she placed on his jaw, and while he clenched his fists tightly by his side, she whispered...

"_I love you"_

He stood, stunned and just as he opened his lips to murmur the same, she had run away to be wedded leaving him abandoned. Her words echoed through his mind during the ceremony, the reception and as he watched her retreating form, wearing the boy who lived's blazer around her shoulders.

* * *

It has been three years already.  
He has a full time job, a loving family and a good circle of friends.  
Men worship her, an estate worth more than what the Ministry earns every ten years and a famous husband...she also has an adorable little girl who is on the cover of Ideal Child Magazine every month.  
Red hair and blue eyes. Ron's eyes.

She visits often, her daughter's hand clasped tightly in her own.  
He refuses to see her but talks to her daughter, Rose. He would entertain her with games and riddles. She would clap her hands and swing from his neck like a monkey, screaming in delight.  
Meanwhile her mother would listen with bored reluctance to his wife.  
She would eye him across the room, _accidentally_ fluttering her eyes or _accidentally _showing a little too much of her long legs.  
That's what he tells himself at least, he doesn't know if he is imagining these things or if they are truly happening.

* * *

One sunny afternoon she invited him to her mansion. He walked in nervous and feeling unwelcome in the foyer of cold marble. Replicas of Elgin Marbles stare sightlessly from their alcoves in the walls as Ron waited for her to appear. He heard a dull thud and a muffled sound but dismissed it at the time. His imagination was playing tricks again.  
Just as he turned to leave, she appears wearing a silk dressing gown, wearing ridiculously large sunglasses over her eyes and her cheeks flushed red.  
She indicates for him to follow her into the study.

His eyes settle on the dead body of Harry Potter slumped in the corner.  
He backed away, slowly, as if he would be next.

Sighing deeply she removed her sunglasses revealing her black eye.  
He stares at the horrible bruise that stains her flawless features.  
The red tinge in her cheeks weren't blush but the mark of a practiced backhand.  
Pulling aside her nightgown, she stands naked before him.  
His eyes move immediately to the pattern of bruises littering her body.  
Some of the bruises are fresh blue while others, healing yellow.

"_You can go now…I just wanted you to know"_ she says, putting her sunglasses back on.  
He nods tearing himself away from her melancholy gaze.

* * *

The death of Harry Potter is on the headline news the very same evening.  
Ron sits impassive while Hermione holds his hand tightly, tissues littering the floor.

There are photos of her sprawled everywhere, Mrs. Potter, Ginny Weasley, murderess, innocent, addicted to painkillers, conspiracy theories.  
They call her by different names and hyperbolic headlines but all publish the same story, 'we don't know the truth'.

Some are photos of her when she was a little girl, some as an alluring model and some are of her shrouding her face with her hands. The media decided it was an accident, why would anyone want the boy who lived dead?

Ron sees her at the funeral in a black carriage led by threstrals.  
The people who participated in the war see the skeletal horses marching solemnly, burdened by their load.

Sitting in the carriage she is holding her daughter who plays with her mother's long locks of red hair.

Red like blood.

The case was dismissed and adjourned, the truth, buried with his coffin.

* * *

It is thirteen years from that day.

"_Don't you dare tell her! I won't allow you to!"_ she screamed throwing a glass vase at him. He shielded himself from the glass shards before grabbing her shoulders. She spat in his face.

"_She deserves to know, she still thinks her Dad is the boy who lived and beat her mother every night! Do you think she's proud of that?"_ Ron yelled hysterically. Ginny paled before wrenching herself out of his grasp.

"_So what?"_ she says proudly jutting her chin out, _"Do you think she'll be proud of knowing that she's the daughter of 'mommy's brother'! It's sick! It's sick...it's sick...I'm sick..." _she said trailing off and crumbling to the ground, her pride and resolve gone.

He felt guilty as he exited the room, leaving her choking sobs on kitchen tiles. Walking up the stairs two at a time he finds Rose in her bedroom. Rose is now eighteen and reminds him painfully of her mother on the languid summer night that all of this began.  
As he walks away he doesn't feel any guilt.

The truth is better left untold.

'_I love you' _


End file.
